


The Compassionate Sociopath

by watsonswarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonswarrior/pseuds/watsonswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds John to be a weeping mess on the floor and has no idea what to do</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Compassionate Sociopath

Sherlock found John huddled on the floor of his room, crumpled into the fetal position, holding his knees to his chest, letting out ragged sobs. He stood there, frozen in his tracks.

\---

Sherlock had been texting John for ages, it seemed. He must have sent him 20 messages before he pocketed his phone to go looking for him. He figured he must have been with Sarah, so he checked over at her flat first. He knocked impatiently at her door, fidgeting more than he had since he’s been off the drugs. Sarah opened the door, face falling as soon as she saw who was standing at her doorstep. When she told Sherlock she hadn’t seen or heard from John the whole day, that she thought he was off on another case with him, he began to worry slightly. He hurried down the stone steps and hailed a taxi, wind blowing at his long overcoat. 

He then went to go see Lestrade. Maybe John had gone over to check on a case. Sherlock knew at this point he was just trying to rationalize John’s apparent disappearance, trying not to jump to unsavory conclusions. He willed the cabbie to go faster. The driver looked into his mirror and must have seen the worry in his face because the taxi accelerated greatly. When the cab reached Sherlock’s destination, he threw several banknotes at the cabbie, much more than was the normal rate. He hurried into the building, bounding up to where he would find Lestrade. He reached the proper his office, gasping for breath.

Lestrade was incredibly taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden visit. He didn’t beat around the bush, asking the DI if he knew where John was. Lestrade said he hadn’t heard anything from him since the last case. He went to reach out to Sherlock, to calm him since he was obviously distressed. Before he could offer any assistance, Sherlock was out of the office, nearly sprinting to the exit. Sherlock needed to go back to the flat, to regroup. He hailed yet another taxi, all the while sending more texts, even attempting to call, John. He threw another flurry of banknotes at the cabbie when they reached Baker Street. 

Sherlock wrenched open the heavy black door, taking the steps by two. He jingled the keys in his hand, slightly fumbling with the locked door. Once he was in, he couldn’t stop pacing. He ran his fingers through his curls, shaking them into a messy dissaray. John always answered his texts. Well, when he wasn’t with Sarah that is, but he would at least tell him when he would be out, or even send him a simple text notifying him he would not have his phone on for the rest of the evening. He wasn’t going to lie to himself. He was worried about John. So worried he even thought about calling Mycroft for his help. While endlessly pacing, he passed by John’s room. Maybe, if he was kidnapped, the kidnapper may have left DNA or any kind of evidence behind. He turns the knob slowly, cracking the door open with care. He saw someone curled in a ball, shaking all over and, to Sherlock’s horror, he realized it was John. 

He didn’t know what to do or why exactly he was in such a state. He was, dare he say, frightened of seeing John like this. He was usually incredibly stoic, ever the soldier. He was strong and brave and loyal. He had never see John fall apart. Sherlock moved mechanically over to where his best friend lay weeping. He walked to where he was huddled, bending down with caution, knees trembling. John looked up slightly and Sherlock felt his eyes widen, almost letting out a gasp. His eyes were red and swollen, nose dripping. Rosy blotches adorned his face, cheeks stained with hot, salty tears.

Sherlock let his eyes wander down to his chest, where he was clutching what appeared to be a picture frame. John’s sobs did not relent. In fact, they intensified. Sherlock was not prepared for this. He never had to comfort someone in his life before, which could be because he never felt connected to anyone. But John was different. So, instead of shying away like he always used to do, he moved in closer, enveloping John’s weeping form in his long arms. They stayed like that for a long stretch of time, John crying into his button down aubergine shirt, Sherlock gently rocking him, patting the back of his head, rubbing his heaving back with an affection that was foreign to the consulting detective. And he was content in staying, as long as John needed him, he would be there.


End file.
